


The Sinners and the Saints

by Flyting



Series: Interrogator!Ben/Hux [5]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dark Ben Solo, Flirting with the enemy, Hux is Not Nice, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogator AU, M/M, Mindscapes, Politics, Resistance, Seizures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8622547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyting/pseuds/Flyting
Summary: Ben Solo is the Resistance's interrogator of last resort. General Hux is their prized captive. General Hux is comatose following an interrogation gone wrong, and Ben is the only one who can delve into his mind to bring him back. Meanwhile, the First Order has given the Republic an ultimatum- force the Resistance to return their general or face open war.





	

A Jedi must never give in to anger.

Anger, pride, fear; those were the path to the dark side. Ben knows this. He’s heard it so many times the words are probably physically scarred into his brain. Etched like graffiti somewhere in the back with all the other things he doesn’t like to think about.

When he was a kid his uncle had taken him aside once. It was after a disagreement- a dumb childish fight, really- with another boy. Ben can’t even remember what it was over anymore. The other kid made fun of his ears or his haircut or something stupid like that and Ben had decked him right in the face. Uncle Luke had dragged them apart and punished them both for fighting, his voice cutting right through Ben’s shrill protestations that _it wasn’t his fault._

Luke had given them both the usual lecture; they had to be united, they couldn’t fight amongst themselves. They had to master their emotions.

He expected them to control themselves. Anger and wrath drew you into the dark side.

He was disappointed in them.

It was the last part that had stung the most, maybe because of the way his uncle always managed to look so hurt when he said it. Like he was wondering if maybe he were the one who had done something wrong.

Ben remembers crying afterwards, his skin hot and sticky with angry tears, and wanting to scream at the universe because _it wasn’t fair, no one ever took his side._

After he sent everyone else away, Luke had told Ben to stay behind.

It was the first time since leaving (don’t think of it as _being sent away)_ to train with Luke that his uncle had spoken to him the way he used to. Like family. Ben had missed that.

Uncle Luke had been one of his favorite people growing up, ever since Ben was seven and Luke had taught him how to use the Force to move his father’s tools when he wasn’t looking, then laughed with him when Han told them both off.

Luke said that he understood. That he knew what it felt like to be so full of anger you thought you were going to choke on it if you didn’t find some way to let it out. But at twelve, Ben didn’t want to be understood; he wanted to stop feeling like he was constantly on the verge of flying apart.

“Look, Ben,” he said, crouching so that he had to look up into Ben’s eyes- even then he was tall for his age, all uncoordinated, stick-insect limbs. Luke’s hands were on either of his shoulders. The synthetic one always held on just a little more tightly. “Either you control your anger or it controls you. There’s no third option. Believe me, I’ve looked. And, uh- the second option doesn’t work very well either,” he added, a self-deprecating smile cracking his face. It made him look younger.

Of all the things his uncle ever said to him, that’s the one Ben most often wishes he’d listened to.

General Hux, the face of the First Order, the Resistance’s prized captive, has been unconscious for three days and it’s all Ben’s fault.

 

They shoot the general full of a solution to keep him hydrated and leave him lying in the narrow twin bed in the room the Resistance had scrounged up for him. His knees are bent, grasshopper legs curled to fit all of him into the too-small bed. A flash of pale, bony ankle where his pant leg rides up makes him seem strangely fragile before somebody tosses a blanket over him. His face is slack, nearly-translucent eyelashes brushing his cheeks.

Ben knew he’d fucked up as soon as it happened.

He’d been too angry- story of his life- after a spectacularly unpleasant meeting with his mother.

General Organa had received a message that morning from the senate on Hosnian Prime, urging the Resistance to immediately release their prisoner. In deference to her status as a war hero, the _or else_ was only implied.

Instead of taking quiet, violent retribution the way they usually did when the Resistance started sticking fingers into their plans, the First Order was playing politics. Those bantha-fucking Imperial wannabes were hiding behind petitions to the New Republic. Threatening _legal action._ Demanding the Republic strong-arm the Resistance into forcing return of their general, like they were a bunch of naughty children who’d broken the neighbors’ window. They actually had the nerve to insinuate that if the Republic refused it would be construed as _an overture of war_. The aggrieved victim act made him sick.

“As if they didn’t just get caught red-handed with a weapon that’s only possible purpose could be the complete destruction of the Republic!” He’d raged as soon as his mother had ended the holo-conference and everyone else had filed out of the meeting room. “Who the f-“ he stumbled over the expletive as Leia glanced up at him, “Who do they think they are?”

He was jittering, drumming his fist on his own thigh, fighting the urge to put it through his mother’s wall instead.

Ben was angry at the First Order. Angry at the senate for being cowed by them, for brushing his mother off with a _we’ll look into it_ when she passed along what Ben had uncovered about the Order's secret Starkiller Base.

“They don’t want to believe it,” Leia had said, her voice thick with disgust. “The senate wants peace so badly that they’re willing to turn a blind eye and hope that because they don’t _want it_ to be true that it won’t be. I don’t know if that’s naïve or just stupid.”

Ben snorts. He knew which one it was.

"You're sure that weapon isn't operational." Her eyes are fixed on a point on the desk.  
  
"It isn't. I'm sure. Hux is sure. He wishes it was." 

“And they’ve given us three standard days to hand him over. Just in case-“ 

“You can’t be thinking of giving in to them-“

“ _Just in case_ ,” she repeated slowly. “We need to get everything we can out of General Hux. Quickly. Who knows how many lives may depend on it.”

His tongue felt thick in his mouth. "Okay." 

 

 

Hux, of course, had been less than willing to lend a hand to the cause and Ben had been too angry, far too angry, to play nice. His attitude, his sneer, his accent, his stupid nasal voice grated at Ben’s nerves. Hux had been too tense, too combative, and still too damaged from the last time Ben had forced his way into his mind.

Too much, too much, he was always _too fucking much_. A creature of excess, his edges constantly overflowing. But this was _important,_ they were running out of time _._

Like the blunt tool that he was, Ben had thrown himself straight into what had worked last time- picking the general’s mind apart at the seams, confusing him with a maelstrom of remembered emotions until he let go of the information Ben wanted. Fueled by spite and urgency, and a sour, shameful need to just take something apart. He’d wanted that thrill again; the rush of success, of victory over an enemy. Wanted _results_. Something he could take to his mother and show her that he’d done well- that he _could_ do well- that he could fix this problem for them.

Turning the memory of it over in his head as he struggles to sleep at night, Ben is sick with disgust at himself.  
  
_“S- stop,” Hux had babbled. Fear was a bright ribbon his mind. His voice was shrill. “Stop, Ben, stop plea-“_

Blood was pounding in his ears, but he wasn’t sure if it was his or Hux’s. All he knew was that it felt _good_ to rip that cocky façade down, good to hear the polished asshole _beg_. Slick with violent pleasure, he had pushed and torn, letting his anger fuel him, it was _working_ and then-

_“Ben, stop- hey, stop!” A door slamming and Poe’s voice piercing through the laser-focus of the mental connection. A flare of irritation at the interruption- can’t Poe see that he’s so close-_

Hux was right about him. The thought settles heavy, like a stone, in the pit of his stomach. What had he called him? An attack dog they only let off the leash when they want to brutalize an enemy.

Brutal. He had been brutal.

“ _He’s having a seizure. Ben- hells- what did you do?”  Across the table, the general’s face has gone redder than his hair. His eyes are bloodshot. Hux struggles to suck in a breath, the sound catching painfully in his throat as his muscles lock tight, and he slips out of the chair convulsing, too sudden for either of them to react- Ben felt frozen in place, pinned to the spot with shock, as Poe shouted for a medic._

He couldn't move. _You did this._ The words thundered in his head, disgust pushing away his pride, burying it under a mountain of guilt. Hux spasmed on the floor, jerking like he was being electrocuted, limbs locked up and wet sounds gasping out of his throat. He'd pissed himself.

Luke was right about him. He saw it even back when Ben was a little kid.  He was too angry- too close to the dark side. He let his anger rule him, and not only had he failed in his mission, he had nearly killed their prisoner.

The sick knot of guilt in his stomach that won't go away lurches at the memory of Hux’s fear.

“ _Are we doing this again, then?”_ Hux hid his fear behind callous sarcasm, but Ben could smell it.

That hollow tone in his voice, his desperate, half-ditch attempt at an escape; it wasn’t just fear of betraying his cause. He’d been afraid Ben would hurt him.

And Hux had been right to be afraid. He had lost control.

Ben feels like his skin is on too tight. Every sound is too loud, too much.

People were right to be afraid of him.

Was this how his grandfather had felt? Did Anakin force himself to push limit after limit, to go farther, telling himself it was necessary, it was _the only way_ , until one day he looked back and realized he couldn’t see the shore anymore? Did he realize too late that the line between right and wrong, between the dark side and the light, had vanished somewhere and he hadn’t even noticed?

Sunrise finds Ben sitting on the roof of the hanger, his long legs dangling off the edge into nothing.  

“Thought I saw you up here...” Poe grunts a little with effort as he makes the jump from a pile of stacked storage crates, catching onto the roof ledge with both hands.  Ben shuffles his feet to one side to give him room to haul himself up.  
  
On the ground below, Poe’s little droid, the orange and white BB-unit that trailed after him like a pet, whistled and trilled, irritated at having been left behind.

“You couldn’t have picked an easier spot to hang out?” Poe groans out. Ben doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to talk right now.

“I like this. This is nice,” Poe says, shuffling on the pitched metal roof until he can sit beside Ben, their legs hanging side-by-side. “The sunrises here are gorgeous. All that pink and yellow. It’s one of the things I miss most when I’m off-planet.”

Ben says nothing, although he agrees. He’s going to miss D’Qar when they inevitably move base. The way the morning sun catches on the massive stone spires in the distance, casting shadows hundreds of feet long, is nothing short of breathtaking.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He is still wearing the rumpled shirt and pants he wore yesterday. Trying- and failing- to sleep in them has not exactly improved their condition.

“Okay, don’t get me wrong- the strong and silent thing works for you, but I’m gonna need a little feedback here,” Poe says, mock severely. “Work with me, Ben.”

Despite Ben’s best efforts, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It irritates him. He’d had every intention of sitting up here and marinating in his black mood, but he always buckled under the onslaught of Poe Dameron’s relentless attempts to cheer him up. Poe knew it, the asshole.

“The thing with the Order prisoner is eating you, isn’t it?” Poe says, not unkindly.

“I nearly killed him,” Ben mumbles. “He could still die.”

“He’s not going to die,” Poe says, dismissive. “At least, not from this. I was with General Organa when she met with Doctor Kalonia. She said his vitals were good and it’s most likely the unconsciousness is just while his brain heals, from the, uh-

Ben snorts derisively. “Uh _.”_

He doesn’t comment on the fact that Poe was the one who accompanied his mother to speak to the doctor and not him. Ben knew full well that Poe was the one his mother usually consulted with, whose opinion she trusted. The one his mother left in charge in her absence. The dashing pilot, the hero, the beloved commander. The general’s second-in-command.

Poe was everything Ben was supposed to have been. Even Han liked him. He knows this. It doesn’t mean he likes to be reminded of it.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Ben says, hating how small his voice sounds.  
  
“I know, buddy.” Poe replies immediately. “I know.” As if there could be no question whatsoever that this was anything other than a horrible accident. As if Ben wasn’t-

Ben spent a great deal of time thinking badly of Poe, in what even he recognized as a petty, jealous sort of way. Being less kind than Poe deserved. And yet, every time Ben felt like the weight of the universe was against him, Poe seemed to know exactly what to say to make it better.

Another grain of sand on the mountain of his guilt. Sure, fine. What was one more?


End file.
